


Catching a Scent

by Doodled93



Series: Stories In Update Limbo (See Notes In Series For Note on Update) [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, BAMF!John, F/M, Friendship, Funny, Gen, Humans, Humour, Jim Moriarty has a Size Kink, John Watson Is A BAMF, John has a badass nose, John the puppy, Knot, Knotting, M/M, Scenting, Sherlock the vampire, Supernatural - Freeform, Vampires, Were - Freeform, Werewolves, haha - Freeform, possibilities, rating may change later, vamp, warning for some language, warning you now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doodled93/pseuds/Doodled93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had decided long ago that he wouldn’t ever go out on the full moon, blooded or not. In the Army, things were different, but invalidated back to London, things have to go back to the way things were. That’s harder to make sure of when he meets a mad Vampire by the name of Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>Pairing might change later, as well as the rating, I don't own anything other than my imagination, everything else belongs to other people, including the Sherlock characters. And doesn't that just suck.<br/>NOTE: Not going to be updated in November most likely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Really Wasn't

**Author's Note:**

> Not part of any book 'verse, this is entirely on me as far as I know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there are quite a few Werewolf and Vampire stories in this fandom, and I thought I’d try my hand at it. Well, that’s a lie.  
> I’ve had this plan in my head for a while now, and already know the title for the second story to this, which will be season 2, called “Whiffer-dog Watson” (not really spoilers), so farther along you can look forward to that. But I’ve had this idea, this take on the werewolf/vampire/human coexistence, for a while now, and have already written a couple of different beginnings to this story before deciding I really like this one best.  
> So I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1—He really wasn’t.

 

John wasn’t racist.

He really wasn’t.

He didn’t say that because he’d just said something that might be considered even lightly racist (and therefore had to vocalize that he was so very not discriminating against Feeders—sorry, Vampires, or Furries—sorry, Werewolves, or Regulars—sorry, Humans), or even because he had something to prove.

He just had issues with whom he could date.

It wasn’t for lack of interest, he thought, as he smiled reflexively at the woman picking out a packet of crisps next to him, smelling her interest even as he noticed the slow dip in her perusal over him.

It was mostly because they ended up misunderstanding _so much_.

That was why he only dated human women.

Only human women.

And that wasn’t even because he was _straight_.

He’d done more than enough experimenting to know that he wasn’t even coasting on a fence before ultimately leaning to one side or another… it was more like everyone imagined a fence while John only saw that there was a huge yard for him to explore, but was limiting himself purposely.

It was all the misunderstandings that kept him from expanding much…

So he wasn’t racist.

He wasn’t straight.

And he wasn’t what most people would call regular, though normal fit him pretty well.

Human women saw him the closest to what he is, even with the collar, chain, and red tag that, for some reason the army had misplaced the papers ordering a new white one for, but he wasn’t going to complain about that.

He didn’t want to go to a clinic every month, and he’d managed in the war without anyone noticing through all the hustle and bustle that he wasn’t getting his regular drip like he should (the thing about so many Were’s in the service, and the significantly smaller number of Vamp).

So when people saw him, they saw a sturdy man on the shorter side, dishwater blonde hair with a bit of grey/silver patterning, a kind face, and a red tag on his collar that meant that he was on a regular drip, and so was safe to be around even after he Changed. Not that John Changed in front of people, no, and even on full moons he didn’t leave his apartment, despite the red tag.

If people got closer, they would also notice the strange sharpness of his blue eyes, the focused look that Humans got to recognizing as not-Human (though they could tell by the collar and tag), and they might happen to catch a glance of his tag and see the royal seal that meant he was part of Her Royal Majesties Services, the Medical cross behind it specifying the RAMC. That would be solidified by the fact that his tag was far from pristine; carrying a number of nicks and scrapes from shrapnel, bullets, and other debris.

And, depending on if you were a Were or a Vamp, you might notice things like his base scent, the other scents that marked him for how hygienic he was (and what products he used), you might even notice his heavier heartbeat or smell the iron tang from his thicker blood, rich from a high-meat diet, made thicker by being born a Were.

Many things get noticed and dismissed, but it’s John underneath all that.

Most people notice the collar first, though, just like one would notice a Vamp by his or her wristband, and the absence of either from a Human, and made decisions about the person immediately based on that.

John wasn’t terribly tall, was unassuming, kind, and was, therefore, what most referred to as a ‘beta’ (despite various researches indicating that no such labels could correctly be administered to a Werewolf any more than one would be able to do so with a Human or a Vampire).

Anyone from his platoon would know that it was something entirely different, but he wasn’t doing that anymore, he didn’t have to overhear whispers of an offensive but well-meaning nickname, he wasn’t sent out on short missions between patients, he didn’t have an entire group to look after anymore, and he wasn’t, he wasn’t—

Ah, yes, they would also notice his cane. The limp.

The limp that meant he wasn’t _useful_.

John sighed and moved on.

The full moon was in five hours, and he had to stop by the butchers for a few cuts since he wasn’t going out (again).

Sometimes he wondered if his landlord wasn’t suspicious.

Every month John didn’t go out, he came by the sit-in John was set in for the duration of his therapy sessions and would check for damages—even blooded Werewolves paced and couldn’t help but gnaw and scratch when kept in an enclosed space, but hadn’t yet had any reason to insist on the basement.

The red tag meant that he couldn’t insist he take advantage of the underground area, and the lack of property damages meant he couldn’t insist that John go out like all the other regularly dripped ‘Wolves.

John wondered why he hadn’t been asked about that yet, and wondered morosely if he’d be asked by his next landlord or lady, when he had to finally move out of London.

His pension wouldn’t last, not even with the extra afforded by his werewolf status due to his increased meal intake.

Perhaps he needed a flat share.

He thought a moment, but shook his head and thought again about not being racist, but the lack of understanding for his situation.

He couldn’t even imagine living in with a human woman. In his experience they had set ideas of what was so, and wouldn’t know to leave him alone on these nights. He’d lost his last girlfriend because she wanted him to stay at her place one night when the moon as full, and couldn’t understand why he said no.

“It’s not like you’ll do anything John! You just got your red tag from the army, and it may be the only time I really get to see you before you go on tour!”

He didn’t want to dwell on the fact that she considered ‘really seeing him’ as seeing him Changed.

John couldn’t explain that he got his red tag by sneaking past the line, changed, and acting like he normally did, watching as the pack of wolves on the other side were corralled forward and bit and nipped at each other like a bunch of rowdy puppies with massive fangs.

If he knew that getting the red tag meant that Coralline would insist that he Change in her flat when he mentioned that he wouldn’t be going out.

Getting his tag was the first time since he was 12 that he went out in public Changed.

John wasn’t good in public. He didn’t like the stares.

At least in the Army it got to the point that no one cared.

The last time he went out of his room when he was Changed willingly had been when he was 6. Now that he had more control not to change any time he was feeling emotional, or threatened, John didn’t go out on the required Change days of the full moon. No one had seen him willingly on those nights until the army, and even then John was primarily working as a doctor, so that meant more time out of fur than in it.

And really, if more people could understand the meaning of inter-racial-cooperation like you came to while in the army, John wouldn’t have to continuously have to remind himself that he wasn’t racist.

People had this idea about werewolves that meant that they were always thinking about whose dominance trumps whose, thinking about sex, thinking about going for a hunt, and always thinking about food.

John could admit that he often thought about food, but it was hardly unusual, since a Were in his right mind was a well fed Were, and even the youngest needed near twice as much food as the average human.

It was why there were eating contests specifically for Werewolves, and then a separate one for Humans. There weren’t any for Vampires, but that was mostly because they didn’t need to eat much in the first place, at least nothing solid.

The hunting thing was less a hunting thing and more of an instinct thing. And even then it was really all about adrenaline.

Well, for John it was.

He’d heard others talking about going for hunts, about the thrill of the chase and the satisfaction of bringing down their prey, even if it was a mouse or a rabbit. He’d heard others trying to explain it to humans, saying it was the satisfaction of providing for ones self, an age-old instinct that told you that ‘hey, you can go out and find something to feed yourself,’ and was satisfied by even small hunts.

It was why there were so many ‘Wolves in the police, in the army, in security, in places where you could be provided the hunt if not the kill. Sometimes with the kill, if your job demanded it.

Every summer that John was at Bart’s he would take at least one weekend to go camping, to let himself run around, and yes, he did scent out and track a number of animals, but that was all just following a scent. John knew he had a good nose, even then, and it was fun tracking a rabbit, or a deer around on it’s route.

It seemed sometimes that where others DNA said “Scent, Hunt, Kill!” John’s “Scent, Hunt, And Maybe Follow Around For A Bit, Just To See How Long You Can Go Without Scaring It Away!”

But then again, John also didn’t need to be regularly blooded to keep a lucid mind when Changed, so there you go, there’s a slap to the wrist for starting to think John was the standard Werewolf. The red tag may say he was regularly blooded, but when you were in a… horde would work, but for humors’ sake you’d likely call it a Pack, then it’s easy to get someone to believe that one got mixed up in the unblooded rabble while looking for someone to replace their silver tag with a red one.

So always thinking about hunting was an unfair stereotype.

The wanting sex wasn’t.

John had a healthy interest in sex, but it didn’t dominate his mind.

However, that lack of domination in his mind didn’t keep him from getting one of his least hackle raising nicknames, Three Continents Watson.

But really, it wasn't like he was one of those sex-crazed nymphomaniac Were’s, really.

He left that kind of reputation to the young ones who went after anything with a pulse and a hole/peg at the appropriate height.

Which all really left the most inconvenient stereotype, the dominance thing.

John is interested in relationships, not a constant test of wills.

With other Werewolves, in either gender, this usually meant he either encountered those who were so careful in not seem like they were assuming dominance that they smashed down any show of personality, or they were constantly making sure that they were the ones in the dominant position. Sometimes he even met someone who was _looking_ for someone to boss them around and take care of them, and while John enjoys taking care of his partners, that didn’t mean he wanted to be giving orders. He wanted to have a relationship, not an underling to boss around.

With Vampires, things were a bit different.

He knew that one of the stereotypes for Vampires was that they were bossy, and it seemed like it was true for most vampire’s that he’d met, never mind dated.

But, perhaps it was because of his short stature, or his friendly and generally helpful personality, the few vampires who he’d dated seemed to think because of his ‘beta-ness’ that he wouldn’t mind being used like a doormat.

And they usually got defensive when he called them on it, which meant that they thought he was trying to pull some dominance BS on them.

But this attitude also meant that they thought they had a right to take a sip after they’d gotten to a certain stage of the relationship.

Usually without even a by your leave.

When he said (and sometimes demonstrated) ‘No’, it once again went to the dominance game thing.

 _What do you mean_ , they’d ask. _It’s a win-win situation, I get a drink and you keep your mind when you go all fury,_ they’d cajole. _You only meant no drinking until things got serious,_ they’d insist.

 _You’re only saying no because of some dominant Alpha thing, aren’t you_ , they’d accuse.

No, I’m not in the least bit interested in being a snack, thank you, he’d usually reply.

Sometimes things would go on for longer, until they insisted again, thinking that surely now he knew them well enough to allow just one sip, right?

No.

And it was always a surprise to them.

John sighed again.

And as for Humans… surprisingly enough for the men it was usually a situation similar to that with other Werewolves.

A lot of unsure posturing just to make sure John knew they weren’t playing the beta or omega or whatever to his Alpha, or else thinking they were being big shots by trying to assert dominance over a werewolf.

Quite a few blokes who he’d thought were alright turned out to be that sort after they realized that John wasn’t interested in always acting like Captain John Watson (though at the time, he hadn’t had the title or the experience), and decided to show all their friends how they could make ‘their Were’ jump through hoops at their command.

Yeah, John wasn’t looking to be treated like an inmate at one of the Old-style Werewolf Labor Camps, back in the day when Vampires still hid in plain sight, where Werewolves were seen as somewhat intelligent dogs (like a poodle), and being racist meant that you had an issue with the slant of someone’s eyes or else the colour of their skin.

Human women usually had ideas about dating werewolves, but those were usually based off of romance novels. Ideas like one being ‘entranced by her scent’, ‘instincts urging him on’, ‘uncontrollable knots’, and usually involving some women out there who would be able to ‘sooth the beast inside your mind, without the need for vampiric bloodletting’.

But what this usually led to was women becoming charming and confident when he showed interest, the idea that something that human men and vampire men couldn’t catch had attracted him to them.

John never could tell them that it was the fact that they looked pretty, that they seemed like they might be interesting, and that they weren’t wearing enough perfume to make him choke had led him to chatting them up.  John had a sensitive nose even for a Were, so that last part kept him from clubs when he was younger, and kept him from the kind of women who felt that they _needed_ that perfume to be attractive.

So no, John wasn’t racist.

He’d had some of the best blowjobs he’d ever had from Vampires (whew for the lesser need to breathe), as well as some of the most engaging conversations.

He’d also had some of the most fantastic shags with other Werewolves (all that energy packed into a naturally fit body), as well as the most enjoyable days out he’s had.

He’s also done some of the most surprising things with Humans, both male and female, both sexual and casual, but all that could be trumped, he could tell you later, by a strange man— _the_ strangest man he’d ever met, really—he meets less than a week later.

But that doesn’t happen for a while yet.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John had his nose just out the window, taking in the scents that blew past.

John had always loved the smells of London, even the ones that made other Werewolves complain. There was so much variety, and as much as one might jokingly consider a city to be a concrete jungle, to John that was exactly what it was.

It was true that there were a number of smells that could be found in the forests, but there are always new smells on the wind in a city.

The training compound that John went to for school was right by a forest, with a country town an hour’s drive out, and home a two-hour train ride away, so John could identify pretty much any scent he may come across.

He’d come in at top of his class in tracking, and had top marks in cleanest kill (to the irritation of the pedigree students), and while he enjoyed the clean air and earthy scents that pervade forests and country-side alike, there was just so much more to identify in a city.

In London he could tell if someone had been by the channel, even if only for an hour that day, he could tell if they used a particular kind of gas in their car, if they took a taxi or public transit; specifically the bus or the underground, and on a good day he could even tell if they’d been on it for longer than half-an-hour. 

He could, if he wanted, track one woman across London just by following her brand of perfume, or a man by his cologne, and would still be able to follow if someone wearing the same perfume/cologne had crossed tracks based on whatever else had been mixed into the person he was following’s scent.

He could also tell smaller things about a person, like if they’d showered the night before or that morning, if they had had to exert themselves at all that day (though sometimes he could be a bit off if they happened to sweat more than usual), and even if they’d changed their shampoo within the past week based off the residual or clashing scents.

John was proud of his nose, he depended on it throughout his days, and it had been a dependable constant while in the army.

It was convenient being able to smell the faintest tang of infection, as a surgeon, and to be able to tell with a good wind if there was enemy nearby, as a soldier.

His nose had saved his life a number of times.

It had nearly saved his shoulder, too, but that sniper had chosen their spot well.

Not well enough to duck for cover when John had, delirious with pain, turned around and shot them (and wasn’t it funny that the best marksman of the Northumberland Fusiliers was Captain John Watson, RAMC surgeon?) even at that distance, but John hadn’t caught their scent until it was too late for his army career, even if it was enough to save his life

He huffed through his nose to clear the way for another breath of air and new scents, and mentally shook himself from ruminating.

Physiotherapy had given him enough time to cuss out himself and the sniper, think of how else things could have gone, and more than enough time to find out that the worst pain wasn’t from the bullet wound, but was instead at the hands of his doctor, and that just meant he spent more time cussing out Dr. Reflex and her damnable name and tendency of using it in every conversation.

She was the one testing out his flexibility and mobility, sure, as well as his reflexes, yes, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t tempted to test out _her_ ‘reflexes’ to a jab or a punch.

A knock at his front door had him raising his head, and getting up from his slump by the window to pad to the door, ducking his head under the hanging light.

“A’right in there?” asked his landlord. This was routine by now, his landlord anxious to make sure there wouldn’t be any property damage, only made more worried by the lack of thumping        or any other noises coming from his room.

John grunted and bumped his knuckles against the wooden door to signal he’d heard, he was still there and there wasn’t anything to worry about.

Occasionally this wasn’t enough, and he’d fish out his copy of the key to open the door as much as the chain allowed, and John would let his nose peek past and into sight before moving back behind the door.

The only thing his landlord had to say to him about these nights was that he ‘had a big nose’ before half ordering and half asking him to make sure he doesn’t make a mess next full moon.

John was always tempted to say that his nose was just proportional, , but that kind of talk usually made people curious.

The Training compound allowed their students single-rooms (their own territory, he’d often heard joked), and John had always been a bit big.

Once he’d accidentally Changed and managed to wander off to a part of the school reserved for the older years, the ones with extra classes teaching them how to behave the next year when they went to high school, mixed in with Vampires and Humans, and he’d been so confused and afraid when everyone assumed he was a lost student.

He WAS a lost student, but everyone assumed that he was a lost student who was meant to be in that building, and so he was sent to a different Nursing Station than he was used to, to wait out his Change, and then sent to the principal’s office when it was discovered he was only in fourth grade.

He didn’t get into trouble aside form a stern talking to about why the younger years weren’t allowed in that particular building, but there was an inquiry as to why no one had checked his tags, the ones that would have clearly marked him as a lost younger student.

And then the principal had seen his measurements from the yearly physicals.

And then he’d asked what his breeding was.

And then he’d been skeptical when John said that he’d been the First in his family.

And then John had to explain that yes, his parents had been just as surprised at his size as they had been in finding out that the Watsons, who had no history of Werewolves in the family for more than a dozen generations, had produced one.

And nossir, he wasn’t the first-born. It should all be on that file, sir. Yessir.

Goodbye sir.

But tonight wasn’t a parania night for John’s Landlord, so as soon as he heard footsteps moving away from the door, John moved back to his window to stick his nose out.

He was on the fifth floor, which would be inconvenient for his leg if not for the two working elevators in the building, which meant that he only got a catch of something on the wind, and then nothing close by, but he had to satisfy himself with that.

A draft brought the smell of Scentless (which, despite all claims against it, DID have a scent, at least to John), and he wondered if it was a Were with a sensitive nose like John had, or a government type.

It was a sort of spray that you could buy easily enough and use on yourself to dampen the smell of perfumes or oils or scents that are in the everyday hygiene products you used, meant to be for the use or benefit for Were’s with sensitive noses.

John had a sensitive nose, but couldn’t stand the smell of the stuff. Also, he rather liked the faint smells that came from everyday living, and Scentless was rather like the polar opposite, but still extreme, version of too much perfume or cologne.

But really, Scentless was mostly used by government officials, by those who didn’t want their scent left behind.

John could imagine that criminals used it as well, but if other Were’s could smell it like he could (he didn’t know, the conversation had never come up, but he assumed so), then Police ‘Wolves would still likely be able to follow the Scentless trail left behind.

Really, John thought the stuff was rather useless, but he supposed that someone, somewhere, saw a market for it, and it was still stocked on shelves, so John assumed that there was a steady market for the stuff.

He spent a little more time at the window, watching the world go on by and catching the tidbits thrown his way on the wind, before calling it a night.

It was the last night of the full moon, so he had a Therapy session the next day.

Joy.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John woke up with a lurch, snarl at his lips and heart pounding like artillery shells firing. Bland walls and his own scent surrounded him, and a lurch of dissapointm—relief shot through his chest just as quickly.

It was going to be a long day.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

“How’s the blog going?”

“Yeah, good, ehm, very good…”

“… You haven’t written a word, have you?”

“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues’”

“And you read my writing upside-down… you see what I mean? John, you’re a soldier, and it’ll take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help.”

“Nothing happens to me.”

“Well the full moon ended last night. Why don’t you write about what you did?”

“I stayed in.”

“You could write about other times you—”

“I always stay in.”

“… And why is that?”

“I… just do.”

“Always?”

“Since I was little.”

“But you have your red tag…?”

“Because I enjoy being lucid… you just wrote ‘trust issues with other werewolves’. I don’t have a problem with other werewolves. Or Vampires, or Humans, in case you try going that way.”

“John, I’m just trying to understand. Werewolves get their red tag so that they can go outside on the nights of the full moon, so that they have another option to staying indoors, or in an Underground Bunkroom. From what I understand, very few would go to a clinic to be bitten, or blooded as it’s called, just so that they could stay indoors.”

“Well I’m not part of that few then, am I?”

“…No John. You’re not.”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

“John... John Watson?”

John didn’t recognize the man immediately, and only got a vague sense that he’d known him from his time at Bart’s when the wind shifted and he caught the man’s scent. But Mike was saying so and reintroducing himself by the time he’d registered the fact, and taking the lack of recognition well enough, so John let the momentary embarrassment pass.

Whatever part of his memory that stored information about people in relation to their scents only brought a hazy memory of company and friendship with this Human, as well as a number of funny set ups for dates, so John at least knew he was genuinely friends with Mike, even if they hadn’t been that close, which put him in a smaller category than the scent field of People Who He Knew And Was Only Acquaintances With, which usually meant that there was something obnoxious or prattish about them that kept John from fully relaxing around them.

“I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at! What happened?”

John tried to think of a delicate way to put it (because wasn’t that what people did? They took serious, important things, and made light of them?), and what ended up coming out of his mouth was a short, and barely joking (delicate, remember?)

“I got shot.”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

“What about you, are you staying in London?”

“Ah, can’t afford London, not with an army pension…”

“Even with that boost for that enviable metabolism, eh? Aah, but you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

“Yeah well, I’m not the John Watson—…”

“… Couldn’t Harry help?”

“Huh, yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

“Still making, eh, puppy jokes then?”

“Mmm.”

“Well, I dunno, maybe you should consider a flatshare.”

“C’mon, who would want me for a flatmate?”

“… Huhuhuh.”

“What?”

“You know you’re the second one to say that to me today.”

“Oh? Who’s the other?”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

Chemical stink stung his nose when Mike opened the doors to one of the old Labs at Bart’s. John remembered nearly passing out in this lab in his second year when another student accidentally set off what smelled like a mixture of stink bomb and skunk to John.

He could still smell a bit of sulfur in the air, and he twitched his nose in remembrance, sharing a smile with Mike when he caught him looking. If he remembered correctly, Mike was the one to haul him out of the room.

Looking around, he saw quite a bit of the same sort of equipment he and his classmates had used, but there were a number of new things around, including a new air filtration system running all along the ceiling.

There was another bloke in the room, a vampire by his complexion and by the black ribbon stuffed in his suits breast pocket, fiddling with a number of chemicals. John could smell a number form where he was, and recognized quite a few, though he couldn’t think of anything that all put together would create, other than a mess.

“Well, a bit different from my day.”  
“Huh, you have no idea.”

“Mike,” sighed the vampire, “can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

“Well what’s wrong with the landline?” John thought it was a valid question, but the man didn’t look up from what he was doing when he replied.

“I prefer to text.”

Mike pat his pockets, and didn’t sound too apologetic when he said, “sorry, it’s in my coat.”

After a pause, John offered his own mobile. He didn’t know how to use half the things Harry had downloaded onto the thing when she owned it, but it was a fairly easy-to-use phone.

 “Here, use mine”

“Oh.”

He seemed surprised, and John figured that people weren’t too willing to hand over their phones to strangers. It did seem as though more and more people were getting obsessed with their electronic devices.

“This is an old friend of min, John Watson.”

The man hmm’ed as he wandered over, thumbs sliding over the miniature keyboard of John’s phone when he took it, getting to the texting option quicker than John had been able to figure it out when he first got it. There was a very brief flare of jealousy, but John had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t exactly tech-savvy.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”


	2. Remembering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first review I got on this was from a Guest, using the name Moist Von Lipwig… Holy frig we got a Discworlder over here :D:D:D:D So Kudos to you~ ;)  
> Also, if anyone’s wondering what my mental image of the Werewolves in this, look for Goldenwolf on DeviantArt. http://goldenwolf.deviantart(dot)com/art/Play-Time-193257911 for an idea of a ‘puppy’ as well.   
> Apologies for the lateness of this, but the chapter wasn’t coming out the way I was hoping, and so I pretty much rewrote a great deal of it a couple of times. The next chapter likely won’t be in this sort of style, but since the first draft of this chapter was too much of a retelling of the episode for me to really enjoy it… well.   
> If you haven’t seen the first episode of Sherlock, I don’t know why you’re here.

The walk back to his sit-in was a thoughtful one.

He breathed in the night air and thought back a few hours previous, the adrenalin pumping through his veins, the disappointment he felt in himself when he went into the wrong building—and damn the Cabbie for setting off a Scentless bomb, the stuff was still clinging to his clothing—and the dead calm in his thoughts as he raised his Browning and…

John shook his head.

He was out of practice.

Even a few months ago and he would have been able to track Jeffrey Hope and Sherlock through the thick smell of Scentless, wouldn’t have gotten confused about the wind pushing the scentless more to one side—wouldn’t have thought that meant that Sherlock had been taken to the building on the right.

A flash of yellow in his peripherals had him turning to look, and he saw a taxi drive past him, the lighted sign on top of it flickering slightly. John blinked, and reminded himself that there was no reason for his decision to walk other than his desire to clear his head.

He shook his head again.

Sherlock had nearly killed himself tonight, stubborn man that he is…

The thing is, if John hadn’t had his Browning on him, Sherlock would have taken the damn pill and John wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.

If he’d Changed when he left the Cab, he would have been able to tell which building they went into.

But… but it’d been such a long time since he’d Changed in public—since he’d Changed outside of his room.

Since he’d Changed in front of civilians.

When he’d been on missions in Afghanistan, it very rarely led him to be Changed in front of civilians, and, when e was, he was searching for a scent, following a trail… he didn’t have the chance to spare time or attention to the looks he got.

John knew he was… disproportionately large.

When he’d been at school the few times he’d wandered into the Older Form’s areas for study when he was Changed he was treated like an older student.

He knew he was odd.

He’d done a study of himself when he’d had the lab to himself.

On average, a person is two to three times their own weight while Changed and approximately one foot taller from head to foot. Or nose to tail as in some cases.

John, however… well, he was quite a bit larger.

As a man, he was on the short side, just barely under 5 foot 6, whereas when he’s Changed he’s closer to 8 foot. And that was from his measurements when he was 26.

‘Wolves didn’t stop growing vertically until they were about 30, though certainly by 25 the rate of growth had slowed.

John didn’t even want to think about his weight… without the regular exercise in Afghanistan, he’d lost some of his muscle in both his forms, and there was a real worry that he’d get fat.

He grimaced.

He wasn’t terribly worried about how he looked, but he didn’t want to be unhealthy.

But all this was detracting from the fact that if he’d Changed he wouldn’t have had to resort to shooting the cabbie from the next building over.

He sighed and punched in the code to get into his building, forgoing the elevator to take the steps two at a time.

He had to admit that the fact that he could do this now made him giddy. Made him wish he was much younger to dignify the happy noises that wanted to escape his chest.

Inside his room he took the few minutes needed to pack up his few possessions that had spread through the sit-in, and flopped on the bed.

He was cautiously optimistic about moving in with Sherlock Holmes.

He’d taken John’s rules well enough…

He remembered the conversation now, how initially dismissive Sherlock had been.

John was glad they’d had the rules sorted out on his part, because they were the only non-negotiable parts of flat sharing he’d been worried about.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

In the car Sherlock had fiddling with his phone, and John realized he should probably make some things clear.

“So if I’m going to be your flatmate, there are a couple of things…”

“Yes, yes, of course you have your rules, but I have to say now that there’ll be no _biting_.” The look Sherlock had spared him was one that translated _exactly_ how much the idea of biting John appealed to him. “That’s what those _clinics_ are for…” his lip briefly curled.

John didn’t take offense to the tone or the look, only gave a short nod.

“That’s actually one of the things I wanted to talk about. There are really two, maybe three things that might be a problem that I want to talk about now, and one is that I don’t want to have to worry about you being too lazy to get your own food, and I don’t fancy being a snack. So no, no biting.” Sherlock glanced up at him from his phone, seemingly considering, and nodded.

“That’s perfectly reasonable. What else?”

“Full moons. I stay in, and I don’t want to be bothered.”

Sherlock frowned. “You don’t expect me to leave the house.” It wasn’t a question, but Jon shook his head ‘no’ anyway.

“No, I don’t, I just stay in my room, but I Change in private and prefer to be on my own…” Sherlock’s eyes flickered down for a moment, and John caught the thought behind it.

“Yes, I know I have a red tag. I like being coherent when I Change.”

Sherlock frowned a moment, eyes on his phone, and John was prepared for any claims of how much that didn’t make sense, but Sherlock stayed silent.

“So do I have my privacy, or do I have to look for another flatmate?” John pushed. This was one of the big things he needed to make sure of, and after another moment of silence, Sherlock nodded. “Anything else?”

“…well, unless I’m mistaken, you do a lot of experiments?”

Sherlock looked up at him then, a puzzled frown on his face.

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, first off you were using the lab at Bart’s…” Sherlock made a face briefly, a flicker of distaste, and John raised an eyebrow, “and there’s also the smell of chemicals in the flat.”

“There are lots of chemicals commonly found in a home.” John tilted his head, a smile quirking at his lips. That sounded a bit like a challenge. He searched his memory for the specific smells he’d made out.

“True, but Calcium Cyanide, Tributylamine, Nitric acid, Perchloric acid, and… I think it was Phosphoric Anhydride? If it is, I hope you aren’t keeping it stored near water.” John wasn’t much of a chemist, but he remembered that _that_ , at least, started boiling when mixed with water.

“But those aren’t commonly found in someone’s house.”

Sherlock’s eyes were focused in his direction, but were flicking a bit like he was trying to figure out an equation in his head, before the expression suddenly cleared.

“Ah. You have a good nose.” He said this like it explained so much more than it did, and John wondered if being around Sherlock always meant that you felt like you’d just missed something obvious.

“Yes… So since you do a lot of experiments,” John was going to take Sherlock’s non answer for a ‘yes’, “I really need you to not do anything to my food. I don’t mind if you need some of it for an experiment so long as you replace it or let me know, but I don’t want to have to worry that you’re growing a colony of something on a chicken breast or a haunch of beef.”

Sherlock seemed to consider it for a long while, and John looked out at the passing scenery to wait him out.

“…Fine.”

John nodded his thanks, “What about you? Anything you’ll need?”

He opened his mouth, hesitated, and settled with “I’ll have to get back to you on that…”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John thought on that with some fond exasperation… he was glad that he’d gotten his points across—that he would not, could not deal with a flatmate who was going to poison his food, interrupt him on Full Moons, and expect to be able to bite him any time he doesn’t feel like finding a donor or a blood bag.

But Sherlock had agreed to the rules.

It remained to be seen that he would follow them, though, and the next full moon would b the real test.

Sherlock was observant, and h’d been shown multiple times that night that he had enough curiosity to kill a couple hundred cats.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

It had been dark outside of the cab when Sherlock sighed and said “Go on, ask.”

John blinked. He’d thought that when Sherlock started speaking again it would be about his own conditions for living with him, but he supposed that when he said he’d have to think on it he meant for a while longer. He’d already given his opinion of biting, so John supposed he’d beaten him to the punch with that one.

“Okay… Where are we going?”

“Crime scene. Next.”

“Who are you? What do you do?”

“What do you think?”

“I’d say Private detective…”

“But?”

“But the police don’t go to private detectives”

“I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world, I invented the job.”

John smirked a little, the question he asks next just about laid out for him, “And what does that mean?”

“It means,” he says with some obvious relish, “that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me.”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.”

There’s a small pause, and John wonders if Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, is the sort of bloke who can issue challenges but not respond to them, and feels a small pang of disappointment. When Sherlock had covertly challenged him to prove how he’d come to the conclusion that he did experiments beyond seeing him working at Bart’s, John had welcomed it as a friendly prompt. He had no qualms at showing how good his nose is.

But if he couldn’t take a little friendly fire…

(John didn’t let his mind wander to the numerous relationships, romantic and otherwise, that had failed because they couldn’t handle a friendly jab, couldn’t handle John asking questions honestly because they were always questioning if he was _Challenging_ them like ‘all’ wolves did…)

 **“** When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ You looked surprised.”

(A small part of John relaxed, relieved.)

 **“** Yes. How _did_ you know?” John remembered he’d had his tag partially tucked in his shirt, so it wasn’t likely Sherlock had been able to see it, vampire eyes or not.

 **“** I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room — said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists — you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic — wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan — Afghanistan or Iraq. Also, I saw a glint of the metal underneath the red of your tag, scratches too deep for something you’d get from regular everyday use, obviously the same one you got when you enlisted.” John nodded slowly. Obviously Sherlock was more than fine with showing off his own skills.

_(It was brilliant.)_

**“** You said I had a therapist.”

_(Show me more.)_

“You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone — it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share; you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches — not one, many over time. Not from claws, not from the inevitable drops to the ground. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already.”

 **“** The engraving?”

 **“** Harry Watson — clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father — this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara — who's Clara? Three kisses say a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently — this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then — six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left _him_ , he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But _no_ , he wanted rid of it — he left _her_. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Or maybe he with you. The overlarge engraving he had added afterwards—you can tell by the sharper lines—of a dog’s paw print says that it’s a dig to your lycanthropy, something another Werewolf wouldn’t do—familial werewolves don’t make jokes like that, much too uptight against the idea of them being dog like, and ‘New Wolves’ are taught to resent the implication. So, you’re a First in your family. That brings its own perks and difficulties to a family, more likely a difficulty in yours, so aside from the lycanthropic strain between the two of you, what is it? Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you _don't_ like his drinking.”

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?” John didn’t mention Harry being his sister yet, Sherlock was on a roll and he wanted to see where else he went with his deductions.

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection — tiny little scuffmarks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. No larger marks accompanying them to show another Werewolf trying to plug it in while Changed, so there you go, you see? You were right.”

“ _I_ was right? Right about what?” John scrambled to think if he’d said anything about scratch marks before—

“The police don't consult amateurs.”

John stopped, and had to work to keep the grin from his face, because there was one thing rapidly becoming clear from being around Sherlock, and that was that he never wasted a chance to be dramatic.

“That… was amazing.”

A beat of silence.

“You think so?”

“Of course it was. Extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.” John wondered for a moment if Sherlock was in the habit of fishing for compliments along with being the Prima Donna of his own soap opera.

“That is not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

"Piss off."

John turned to the window, grinning, and saw his new flat mate smirking in the reflection.

This would work out nicely, he thought.

If only he’d known what they were doing.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

He thought it again, now, tilting his head back to look out his window.

He hadn’t known what he was doing, and while he’d done as much a he could when asked to inspect who he was now privately referring to as “The Pink Lady”, he hadn’t been able to contribute much, he thought.

He hadn’t recognized the chemical tang on her breath, meant that his input on her having taken something was a bit obvious, and though he’d been able to tell that she’d been in a cab at one point from the mix of scents (the time-line of the scent scrambled somewhat by the rain, and wasn’t it a funny thing to be thinking back on now?), it was also fairly obvious that she didn’t have a car.

As a Doctor, he hadn’t been able to tell much more.

When Sherlock had gone haring off, John had tracked his scent until he’d come across the fire escape he’d obviously gone up—and at that point John had _not_ been in the state of mind to go up after him, so he’d headed back towards the crime scene…

His sense of direction wasn’t as good as it had been in Afghanistan, where you learned how to keep oriented to which way was South, and which way was Home Base, or else learned how to deal with being lost all the time.

Passing around the crime scene, the woman from before, Sgt. Sally Donovan, had stopped him. Tried to tell him to stay away from Sherlock if he’d known what was good for him—and that she’d managed to say it in an entirely well meaning way hadn’t stopped his hackles from rising.

He thought back on it now, and figured that it was at east partially due to the dominant body language she’d been giving off—likely a result of the large numbers of Were’s in the police force.

Extended eye contact, slightly pushing out her chest, the slight forwardness in her posture and the way her chin was tilted just slightly up… John was generally amused when such tactics were used, because they were used by those who needed the posturing to feel in charge. John didn’t need it.

Because while Sally Donovan was a Sargent in Scotland Yard, that was still an entirely different mindset as a Sargent in the RAMC.

It was still a drastically different mindset to a _Captain_ in the RAMC.

So he’d smiled slightly, feeling resentful at her presumption and amused at the attempt all the same, and kept eye contact. Pulled the mindset of Captain John Watson around himself like a well loves jumper.

“I’ll take that into consideration.”

A PC was turning a spotlight around, and a flash of it shone in his eyes for a moment, and Donovan blinked, looking away for a moment.

John supposed that even after working with Were’s as long as she apparently had still didn’t get her used to the animal shine that got into a Were’s eyes, reflecting light back.

John settled back into his covers, still thinking, still considering…

Considering, because there was one more instance that stuck in his thoughts.

Mycroft.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John could have changed and run from the phones, from the creepy man with control over the CCTV cameras, but…

Well, he’d been curious.

He’d left Sherlock to digging through trash (if he was going to leave him so abruptly to dig through trash, John would leave him to it. He could make his own way back, as soon as he could get a cab), and just about immediately the phones had started ringing as he walked past, so…

Well, why not?

Some part of him thought he was being stupid, but he figured if one couldn’t feel a little reckless after going through a crime scene, when could you?

Besides, he could just as easily change at the end of the car ride, so there you go.

He looked at the woman,   
(“Anthea”

“That’s not your real name, is it?”

“Nope.”

“Ah.”)

and briefly considered flirting some more, but he knew when to cut his losses.

Besides, she was wearing quite a bit of Scentless, and he couldn’t help that he didn’t like it when women wore it.

She wasn’t wearing enough that John couldn’t track her through a crowd (he hadn’t met anyone who did), but still.

Scentless.

Nasty stuff.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

The warehouse the car had pulled up in was a scene he expects out of a Bond movie: all dank dreariness and spooky lighting, pipes and wires making him wonder if there might be some villainous secret layer underneath. It smelled damp, of spilled oil and exhaust fumes, wet concrete and dust.

The man waiting there, standing just a little ways past a chair, is…

Absolutely drenched in Scentless.

Of the brand, John knew you could get expensive body washes and deodorants and creams to rub into your skin to tone your natural scent down to just about nothing.

But he hadn’t ever met someone who’d covered themselves so fully.

He couldn’t help but scrunch his nose slightly.

It was actually pretty gross.

He couldn’t help but snort slightly, trying to get some of the smell from his olfactory system, because as bad as the condensed smell of chemical Scentless had been on Not-actually-Anthea, on this man it was making a shield of Don’t-Want-To-Smell-This all around him.

He’d think it was brilliant if it weren’t for the fact that John’d be able to track him easily for it.

The other man had smiled.

“Have a seat, John.”

And that had been the start of the carefully crafted mind game John now recognized for what it was.

He’d moved forward, past the chair, and kept the conversation going… he’d really prefer not to be that close to so much Scentless, but for all the secrecy the other man had put into the scene, John couldn’t help but be curious.

Because though the other man had to have bathed in the stuff, and then followed up by rubbing every cream and ointment into his skin thereafter, he’d still be sweating out his natural odor. John’d need to be closer to smell it, though. Much closer.

He was right in front of him now, and he still couldn’t smell him, so either John would have to forgo social niceties (which may actually be the wrong move here) and step beyond personal bounds, or else… wait. Wait for a better chance to get a better sniff.

He chose the latter.

The other man asked him to sit, again.

Gave him a smile that promised a ‘good boy’ at the end of it.

Gods he was annoying, but John was reluctantly amused.

“You don't seem very afraid…”

“You don’t seem very frightening.” And he didn’t. While John could see this for the attempted intimidation it was, he wasn’t getting the idea that any violence was even a consideration here. The other man laughed.

“Yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?”

John gave a slight smile. Oh, jeez, that really hurt him deep. Some of it must have shown on his face, because the other man smiled. It was entirely devoid of emotion.

John asked who he was.

“I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“And what's that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?” Ah. Well then. Good to know that John _hadn’t_ just walked into the scrip of a B movie.

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his archenemy… He does love to be dramatic.” And he just had to leave that opening, didn’t he?

“Well, thank God you're above all that.” John looked around their surroundings again, not altogether uncertain now that there wouldn’t be a secret lair underneath the concrete.

Perhaps he had a shark tank hidden somewhere.

If John said the wrong thing, would a trap door snap open underneath him?

Then again, John was fairly certain he hadn’t quite yet managed to say the ‘right’ thing yet, so…

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?” John raised his eyebrows. Okay then. Change of tactic.

“I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him... yesterday.”

“Hmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” John’s phone chimed.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH

“I hope I’m not distracting you?”

John wondered if the other man had ever been a teacher, the tone so full of reproach.

Of course, the other man changed tactics again, soon after that.

Brought out a notebook, as if he’d forgotten (and John didn’t let himself get fooled into thinking that this man forgot _anything_ ), following up with a bribe.

Make him nervous, as most people did after seeing that there was information on them written down by a dangerous stranger, and then offer him a reward.

John remembered once watching the back end of a dog-training show, where the merits of clicker training were being shown…

This seemed like a mix of that, and the carrot-stick method.

He was told, had the implication practically shoved in his face, that there was a stick, and now a treat.

His body language somehow shifted from predatory to friendly without John noticing the exact time of the shift…

If the other man wasn’t a Werewolf, he was _very_ aware of his body language. Enough that he could use it like a chisel against others defenses.

It was more this, than anything else, that made John wary.

The other man dressed things up prettily, made it seem harmless, no imposition, even while asking him to spy on his flat mate and not let him know about it… something about a difficult relationship.

Another chime.

            If Inconvenient, come anyway. SH

John wondered why Sherlock signed each of his texts like that.

Breathed in, just about drowning in Scentless.

“No.”

“I haven’t mentioned a figure…”

“Don’t bother.”

The other man laughed. “You are very loyal, very quickly…”

John somehow resented the implication behind that.

“No, I’m not, I’m just not. Interested.”

John remembers that he could see the exact moment when the other man had changed tactics, bringing back out that damnable notebook again, the smell of fine leather making it through the miasma of Scentless.

He read out the notes John had recently been reading upside-down himself, and his thoughts tumbled about his head.

They were his therapists notes. They were supposed to be private. How could they get out?

He knew, logically, that this man was powerful enough that it was likely nothing for him to get his therapists’ notes, but a part of him still bristled and gnashed teeth at his therapists inability to be really trusted. _Trust issues his arse_ , he just knew who could keep information to themselves.

“Are we done?”

“You tell me.”

His nerves wound tighter, and John thought, _screw it_. 

He turned, and started to walk (limp) away from the Scentless Bastard behind him.

He didn’t care if he was showing his back, he was comfortable enough in his abilities that he could turn his back and still be prepared for an attack.

The Bastard spoke up.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen.”

John stopped.

Another change in tactics. John didn’t like it, but he could admire it. He’d been battered from so many directions; it was hard to keep a sure footing in this conversation. He turned around.

“My what?”

“Show me.” John barely held back a snarl, memories of schoolmates (and Harry) looking at him with cruelty in their faces and asking him to ‘ _shake a paw’_ , laughing.

“Don't...” he stops.

“Remarkable.”

“What is?”

“Most people blunder around the city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?”

John wanted to say no. Wanted to shout at the other man to get out of his head. Wanted to walk away. But no way was John showing his back to this man again.

“What's wrong with my hand?”

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand.” He says, as if John didn’t know and damn the fact every day. “Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're _haunted_ by memories of your military service.” John turned his hand around, clasping it solidly around the other man’s wrist. He didn’t hold on tightly enough to bruise, or to injure, but enough that he couldn’t pull away if he tried. He didn’t try. John sniffed.

He was resisting the temptation of just jerking his hand out of sight, protecting this… somewhat revealed unknown weakness. He pulled the other man slightly closer, eyes stony and steady on the other man’s.

“ _Who the hell are you_? How do you know…” John took in another small breath, sniffing. Was that…

His eyebrows rose, and he took one sharper sniff to be sure, and felt one part of him relax.

He was still on guard, mind, but this was… well, this was a different situation than he thought. _Entirely_ different. Because this wasn’t an unknown mystery trying to get him to spy on his new

The other man was still, face perfectly smooth. John had apparently done something unexpected, and now, knowing who this was, or at least who in relation to Sherlock this was, it was a bit more understandable.

John let go of the other man’s hand, and stepped back a reasonable distance… he couldn’t help the small smile that came to his face, because this was… well, this was certainly something. He’d done something similar himself, and had Harry do some of the same on his behalf, but this was an entirely different level.

“So, you know this entire… meeting, it could have gone a bit differently if you’d just come out and said you were Sherlock’s brother?”

The other man blinked, a brief shutter of an expression before being completely blank again.

John sighed, and rubbed his and across his face.

“Are all Holmes’ this difficult?” he asked no one.

When he looked at who he assumed was the Older Holmes, he looked vaguely offended. And also slightly confused.

John sighed.

“Look, now that I know you’ve actually got a non-suspicious reason for being concerned, I’ll tell you this; next time you do this shtick? Don’t. For Gods sake, I thought you were planning on hurting him or something…” John shook his head.

Honestly, now that he knew the family connection, now that he had the shared family-scent that people can’t help but have with their relations in his nose, he wondered why he didn’t see it before. Really, what did Vampires and Humans do without a Were’s nose? John would be lost without his.

“Look, I’m not going to hurt Sherlock, and I can appreciate being… concerned for a family member, but if you want to know what’s going on in his life, I’m not going to tell you…” John smiled. “You’ll have to do it the same as everyone else, or as close to it as possible, and talk to Sherlock yourself.”

The other man gave him a sour look. “We have a… difficult relationship.”

John’s smile turned into a smirk.

“Well you’ll have to work on that, won’t you? Despite what you may think, there aren’t actually shortcuts to getting along with your family members.”

He got a sour look for that, but then it did a strange thing and turned considering.

John waited him out, waiting for him to say anything, because John wasn’t going to sprout suggestions when they weren’t prompted, because he hated it when people did it to him in regard to Harry’s and his relationship.

The considering look took another turn, this time to something resembling satisfaction, and he turned to leave.

“Fire her,” he called out. It took John a moment to realize who he was talking about.  “She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. Welcome back. Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson.”

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

John shook his head, and got up to close his window.

Mycroft Holmes was certainly someone… was, in his own way, as socially inept as Sherlock.

Oh, he could play at it well, could observe all the social niceties and keep people from getting uncomfortable at his intellect, as Sherlock didn’t care to mask his own, but all that socializing, all that diplomacy, it had one big Sherlock-shaped blind spot.

John thought it was interesting, that siblings picked up cues from each other like that.

Though both Mycroft and Sherlock had different takes on how to interact with people, there was the underlying fact that neither bothered to hide that they were smart. Neither bothered to hide the fact that they were genius, and much, much smarter than pretty much everyone else. They also had the aristocratic look of people who were Born Vampires, likely with the aristocratic heritage behind it.

John could easily imagine them in the Victorian era, but didn’t quite feel comfortable asking them how old they were…

John knew that despite the rather radical differences between Harry and himself (or at least he thought of them as radical differences), they both had the stubbornness of Watsons, and stuck together.

Even when they were growing up, and Harry was teasing him about being the _family pet_ , about how he had to turn furry once a month, about how _cute_ and _puppyish_ he was when he was turned, when she turned around and teased him about being so big for his age…

She would still sock someone else in the face for making the same comments.

And John knew that though she was likely the driving force behind his… unwillingness to Change in front of people, he was protective of her himself.

Because as racist as she could be, she still cared…

John supposed it must be something of the same idea behind Sherlock and Mycroft’s relationship… though theirs was certainly more prickly, he thought.

John had tough skin, even beyond the thick layer of fur, and Harry’s comments were entirely made up of the stuff she used as a kid.

It meant he couldn’t ever really introduce her to any of his Werewolf friends, as all of them were taught the same as he’d been on what was Not Good, on what was racist, on what they should be offended by, and that consisted of about 60% of what came out of Harry’s mouth every visit.

About 10% beyond that were social niceties, and the last 30% was usually influenced by alcohol these days… the main reason he wasn’t keeping in contact as he perhaps should.

John looked out into the night, and then back at the shadow of boxes behind him.

He hoped he knew what he was getting himself into, hoped that he’d be able to get through it, and thought that perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t know what he was getting himself into…

Harry had her alcohol, but John had his own bad habit to work on.

John went to bed.

.-~-~-~~-~-~.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed :)   
> Let me know what you think, and for those of you wondering what’s the deal with this ‘verse, I’ll hopefully have a bit more of it explained in the next chapter… a bit more of a look into what John’s childhood was like, and what the system is like with Werewolves and Vampires and Humans all living together.   
> Just to be clear, this is a ‘verse entirely of my own making, as far as I know there isn’t a book series that’s taken things the way I have, and yeah, hopefully a bit more of an explanation along with the storytelling next chapter :D   
> Show, don’t tell, right? Right :D

**Author's Note:**

> Comment and tell me what you think so far!


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